


Can Feel Your Heart, Yearning Slow

by oneforyourfire



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-06
Updated: 2015-10-06
Packaged: 2018-12-18 04:58:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11867229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneforyourfire/pseuds/oneforyourfire
Summary: Baekhyun’s ready this time, and it looks like they’re finally starting to make this work. (aka single dad has a crush on his kid’s teacher au)





	Can Feel Your Heart, Yearning Slow

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: "fuck my face," divorce mention
> 
> fic title from odesza’s “memories that you call”

Monday morning, Joonmyun wakes up early—earlier than necessary—reluctant, groaning, willing away the breathy exhale against his chest. He curses the small fingers tiptoeing across his cheek, up towards his eyelids, tugging gently, trying to tug them open.

But they’re persistent, those fingers, and Joonmyun relents, flutters his eyes open up to see a pair of giant round eyes blinking up at him, tiny teeth pulled into a smile, the morning light haloing his son’s face in soft pinks.

Baekhyun's not supposed to sleep in his bed anymore. He's a _big boy_ , and Chanyeol _needs_ him, right, needs his hyung to be very brave and not think that there are monsters Daddy needs to scare away, right? Chanyeol needs him, and he can’t be left alone? Does Baekhyun understand?

(Yes, yes, I understand, he’d promised just last night)

Joonmyun’s alarm hasn’t even gone off, isn’t set to for another 15 minutes—15 more _glorious_ minutes, he deserves them, he _deserves_ them—but Baekhyun is nuzzling into him, whispering “Daddy, please, Daddy, first day.”

Baekhyun’s kiss on his nose, across his eyebrows, on his forehead is persuasive; Joonmyun’s sigh is long-suffering.

“Daddy,” he insists, pouting. “ _First day_.”

 _Thirteen minutes_ if he just, just coaxes Baekhyun back into his bed, just lets himself slide into the warm cradle of his sheets.

But Baekhyuyn’s _first day_.

The fatigue even after a truly _indulgent_ 7 hours of sleep, settles into his limbs, bone-deep, as familiar as a lover's caress, and Joonmyun allows himself one last mournful glance at the blinking digital alarm clock

“Let’s get ready, little man.”

Baekhyun chirps in agreement, lands another kiss to Joonmyun’s chin, so happy he doesn’t even complain—as he so often does—about how scratchy Joonmyun’s stubble feels against his skin.

 

Chanyeol is still asleep, and Joonmyun lets him be for a little longer, tugging a train-pajamed Baekhyun into their tiny bathroom.

He props Baekhyun up on his vanity to get ready, his oldest talking him through what he’s most excited about—new books, new friends, a new teacher, some classes even have _pets_ , Minseok hyung said—as Joonmyun shaves, brushes his teeth, washes his face.

Baekhyun’s recently made the transition to “big boy” toothpaste, Perioe Clean Mint, and he still grimaces at the flavor, scrubbing too hard, smearing foam all over the seam of his mouth as he chatters on about how Mommy also said she’d buy him a new Ninja figurine if he was very good today and didn't fight with or yell at any new friends.

Joonmyun smiles in agreement, says he'll match Mommy's contribution, no problem. And if Baekhyun’s really, really good, maybe they can even go to the zoo.

Baekhyun squeals in excitement, sputtering around the warm washcloth scrubbed over his face. He kicks his legs, socked toes tickling against Joonmyun’s pajama bottoms.

Still perched on the sink, chattering now about what animals he’s _most_ excited to see—the polar bears and elephants, and he thinks Chanyeol will really take to the zebras and the kangaroos—Baekhyun watches Joonmyun shave, apply moisturizer, comb his hair.

And Baekhyun stops long enough to insist he be allowed to use some, too. He wants to look handsome, too. Can Daddy comb his hair like Grandma does before he visits Mommy.

Baekhyun fusses over his appearance, running the sticky, tacky— _that’s too much gel, Baekhyun_ —comb through his hair over and over again, before dropping to the ground, satisfied. He insists he be allowed to pick his own outfit, voice softer as they step into his bedroom.

 _The baby is still asleep_.

Waking up a drooly Chanyeol results in a fumbled one-armed diaper change, a sleep-sloppy kiss to Joonmyun’s cheek, tiny arms winding tight around his neck.

A happy baby, laughing more often than he cries, Chanyeol’s chubby cheek tickles over Joonmyun’s throat as he releases a series of hiccuping sighs. “Good morning, Daddy” and “I love you, Daddy” sloppy and lingering over his skin. He’s awake enough to love him, but not awake enough to help.

And there are further one-armed struggles, tugging on a shirt, a pair of pants, socks, shoes.

In the mean time, Baekhyun—big enough to pick his own clothes, he’s going to _kindergarten_ , after all—dresses himself. His favorite Spiderman shirt, denim shorts.

 

Joonmyun dresses himself in a rush, readies Chanyeol’s diaper bag, fixes Baekhyun’s backpack—his lunchbox, his indoor shoes, an extra change of clothes, a pencil box, a pack of wet tissues, Baekhyun’s treasure box.

 

Baekhyun is so excited, visibly and vocally so, but he still worries the soft cotton of his t-shirt between his fingers in between fistfuls of dry Cheerios, scoops of plain yogurt, gulps of orange juice. Nervous, Baekhyun is speaking with a false bravado about how amazing it’s going to be, now that he has new shoes and nice hair and is using big boy toothpaste. He’s not a baby anymore, Daddy. He’s ready this time, really.

Seated on his high chair, Chanyeol is feeding off Baekhyun’s energy, chattering happily in a mixture of gibberish, stuttered Korean, as he gnaws at the sticky cereal in his chubby fists, laughing.

Joonmyun swoops forward to airplane a spoonful of yogurt into Chanyeol’s mouth, and Chanyeol shrieks in delight, intercepting the spoon, smearing white all over Joonmyun’s tie, his own shirt, chin, cheeks.

“Grandpa Chanyeol,” Joonmyun groans, wiping at his yogurt beard.

And laughing in exasperation, Joonmyun has to change his shirt, change Chanyeol's, too, reassure Baekhyun that they'll be on time, he doesn't have to worry. Daddy would never be late for this.

 

And as Joonmyun tugs on his shoes and Chanyeol prattles from his seat on the couch, chubby, denimed legs kicking, Baekhyun crouches by the door to tie his big boy shoes. They'd bought them just last night, taken the subway to an ABC Mart just for sake of this errand. Rainbow canvas high top sneakers with neon green laces.

Last night, Baekhyun had insisted on learning to tie his shoes because Minseok hyung from across the hall, he'd said that _all_ five-year-olds should know.

And it had taken _hours_ , knotting and reknotting bunny-style for him to learn but Joonmyun's heart swells with pride as Baekhyun's chubby, clumsy fingers go through the motions, lacking finesse, much technique, but getting the job done in time. He grins at his sneakers, and Joonmyun decides it was definitely worth it in the end.

Sentimental, he cards his fingers through Baekhyun’s black hair, dropping a kiss to his temple, and urging him to hurry, it’s Baekhyun’s first day, a very, very important day.

Baekhyun skips, Joonmyun struggles, Chanyeol giggles all the way to Joonmyun’s car. A silver four-door sedan, a sensible _family_ car they’d both agreed when buying it, used from the car lot 7 years ago.

Baekhyun had packed an extra snack—lumpy, uneven kimbap rolls, his own doing—a potential gift of friendship, and Baekhyun kicks against the foiled outline of it in the front pocket of his backpack, noisy, as Joonmyun straps Chanyeol in.

 

Joonmyun had done his research before deciding on this school, had in his coworker Yifan’s words _fluttered anxiously and unnecessarily under the guise of research_ for this.

Rainbow Fish Kindergarten.

Very highly recommended on Mommy blogs, boasting a decent-sized playground, a list of highly-qualified staff, an Art, Ballet, Soccer, Choir, Reading Readiness program, equidistant between Joonmyun’s and Joonmyun’s parents’, the very best fit.

And with its planetary classroom names, its pencil topped fences, its pastel decor, the very best one that Joonmyun can imagine, barring of course another incident, or series of incidents.

“Kim Baekhyun,” Joonmyun starts as he parks, meeting his son’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “Do you promise to be good?”

Seated in his booster seat, Baekhyun squints at him, vague indignation, his gaze entirely too withering for a toddler as Chanyeol wiggles, giggles animatedly in his own carseat.

“Do you?” he presses.

It’s hardly the first time, hardly the most imploring and persuasive Joonmyun, Joohyun have been.

And Baekhyun nods curtly, fingers limp around Joonmyun’s wrist as they step through the automatic doors.

 

Today, it’s orientation, a half-day affair. The children will have a chance to meet their teachers, their new friends, get a tour of the school grounds, see where they’ll be sitting, where they’ll be washing their hands, where they’ll be taking their nap, where they keep _Jjjajang_ , the class hamster. They will have a chance to sit through a mock class, eat snack, make their parents a special first day of school present. Mr. Kim—Baekhyun’s teacher, 28, Early Childhood Education major, top of his class, in his 5th year at this school—leans conspiratorially here, stage whispering about how it’s a very, very big secret.

Joonmyun, smiling, shuffles his “Introductory Parents’ Packet” into his other arm, the arm holding Chanyeol, as the seated children cheer in agreement.

The children are allowed to disperse, explore the new toys, their new classroom, greet their teacher.

And Joonmyun notes, a little self-consciously, that he’s the only father among the parents there.

And though Baekhyun has been so _excited_ , he clasps Joonmyun’s hand tightly, nervously in his own, has to be pulled forward before bowing quickly in a rushed, hushed greeting.

Mr. Kim—Jongdae Teacher, please—smiles widely in response. And Baekhyun’s fingers twist into Joonmyun’s pants, his face pressing against his thigh in momentary, uncharacteristic shyness.

“Hey little guy,” Mr. Kim greets, dropping to a crouch, trying to meet Baekhyun's downcast eyed, and Baekhyun balks, his eyebrows pinching as he pulls free.

“I’m five,” Baekhyun counters. “Five years old. I’m not little.”

Mr. Kim is crouching to be at eye level with him, the darkwashed denim near his thighs straining, his neck tipping upwards to meet Baekhyun’s gaze, but he nods, nonetheless, conceding with a soft sound of agreement.

“You’re right. Five years old is very big.”

“I can even tie my shoes. Daddy let me use his special toothpaste and his hair gel.”

Chanyeol gurgles in agreement. Mr. Kim glances upwards, stretches, stands.

“Yours, too?” Mr. Kim starts, and Baekhyun nods, murmurs an affirmative in Joonmyun’s stead.

The teacher’s eyes crinkle in amusement, lips curling at the corners.

"This is my baby," Baekhyun informs him, pride lacing every word. _My baby, mine, just like Minseok hyung’s baby? My baby?_ , Baekhyun had asked Joohyun when Chanyeol had been born.

“ _Your_ baby?”And Baekhyun is too young to understand the source of his teacher’s amusement, but not too young to miss the teasing tone.

“Yes, I’m a good big brother,” Baekhyun argues, wrinkling his nose in poorly-disguised disdain. “I’m the _best_ big brother. I'm helping potty train him, and I don't even say anything when he accidentally pees on me.”

Mr. Kim’s smile, if possible, seems to widen, his eyes crescents. He drops a hand to Baekhyun’s shoulder, squeezes once.

“Daddy says I have to set a good example. Even if it’s hard because that’s what hyungs do. And I’m doing a very good job for my baby. It’s my _job_.”

“He’s right.”

Baekhyun squares his shoulders, sets his chin. There’s something comic and adorable in the way he puffs out his chest as he speaks.

“So I'm _choosing_ to listen to you. I’m _choosing_ to be a good example.”

And Joonmyun, flushing darkly, recalls on prior occasions outright _begging_ Baekhyun to be good, begging him to please just listen to his teacher, please Baekhyun.

“That’s a _very_ good reason to listen,” Mr. Kim agrees, nodding solemnly, and Baekhyun offers him a smile. Tight, placating. Baekhyun gestures with a cocked thumb to the _play rug_ , woven and multi-colored, with dancing Hangul characters stamped on flying bees. There are plastic blocks, puppets, animal plushies, Legos, dinosaurs, sea creatures, toy cars, and other children, engaging in shy hesitant play time together. Baekhyun’s gaze is a longing one, a questioning one. Mr. Kim nods indulgently, tells him to have a great time.

Joonmyun steps forward, initiates conversation.

There are the list of concerns he already has, warnings he wants heeded. Baekhyun's diet, his potential awkwardness with any kids his age, his treasure box, his penchant for mouthiness, the fact that their family is “non-traditional” and how it’s a sore spot even though they see their Mom every weekend because Baekhyun _knows_ families don’t look like this usually and he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to let Baekhyun know that different doesn’t mean _wrong_ , that as long as there's love, it doesn’t matter how—

Joonmyun shifts Chanyeol—“Daddy, scary!”—in his arms, as Mr. Kim hums understandingly.

“He's not a bad kid,” Joonmyun had already rehearsed. “He's just—He needs a lot of attention, a lot of patience, a lot of grace, a lot sensitivity. And he, you know, he’s very opinionated and off-putting sometimes, hard to care for, demanding, doesn’t always play well with—”

Mr. Kim interrupts him with a hand on Joonmyun’s forearm, motioning with his chin.

Baekhyun’s already giggling with other children, telling a joke, Joonmyun assumes, because they burst into tinkling laughter immediately after.

A little girl with pigtails reaches out and holds his hand.

Joonmyun relaxes into a bemused smile.

Baekhyun’s ready this time, and it looks like they’re finally starting to make this work.

“I’m sorry if I’m...” Joonmyun trails off with a shy chuckle. “He’s just...”

“I know,” Mr. Kim laughs, loud, braying, but not unkind. “It’s tough, but this is a good school. And he seems like a good kid. Hardly the worst we have had. This is a very active kindergarten, too. We have a lot special events to keep the kids occupied.”

“Special events?”

“Yes, field trips, planting and harvesting days, concerts, two student plays, some are even open to parent volunteers. The school doesn’t let prospective parents see, safety concerns for the kids, you know, but I have a Naver blog with some pictures. I’ll give you the name.”

All too soon, there’s a folded sticky note in Joonmyun’s pressed pants pocket—a chubby, cutesy Pikachu—Mr. Kim’s letters round and neat.

The bell chimes, xylophones, the Wheels on the Bus.

Chanyeol smarts, eyes widening.

And oh yes, Joonmyun, pencil-pusher that he is, has to drop off Chanyeol at his parents’, pick up an order of coffee for the office.

But Baekhyun has to say goodbye first, running over, reaching up with imploring hands so that Joonmyun picks him up, kisses his forehead.

He wiggles, slides down then makes grabby hands in Chanyeol’s direction, and Joonmyun sets him down.

"Baby," Baekhyun says softly, solemnly, eyebrows pinching, "hyung will be gone. But only for a little bit, so don't cry, okay?” He drops a kiss to Chanyeol's nose, small hand cupping Chanyeol's cheek.

Chanyeol gurgles out a happy _yes, hyung_ , and Joonmyun's bites back a smile, overcome with sentimentality. Chanyeol asks for another hug, another kiss, with an outstretched hand, quickly clenched and unclenched.

Baekhyun quickly complies.

"My baby," he reassures, "I'll be back.”

 

Last year, after Joohyun, Joonmyun had tried to do it alone for a while, too proud to ask for help, or maybe too stubborn to admit that he needed it. He’d hired a nanny, set up Baekhyun at a daycare. They had only made it three weeks before the system had collapsed in on itself.

Baekhyun, still _reeling_ in the aftermath of the big change, had lashed out at the teachers, picked fights, cried uncontrollably every morning when Joonmyun dropped him off. And Chanyeol, too young and demanding to handle, even alone, he’d cried, too, fed off his older brother’s confused anger and indignant sadness. Together, they’d been too much. And the young girl that he’d hired, straight out of college, she’d been overwhelmed. This had been more work than she’d anticipated.

His mother had been affronted, outright _offended_ that he should entrust her grandchildren’s care to _strangers_. To a veritable _child_.

They’d abandoned the school endeavor for another year.

This is their second attempt, hopefully much more successful this time around.

Tightening his hands on the steering wheel, he spares a quick glance to his youngest son.

Joonmyun is still worried that Chanyeol will cry, spoiled rotten and used to Baekhyun's tender care, but he doesn’t. Much too excited apparently.

He hums along to the songs on the radio, kisses Joonmyun on the cheek when Joonmyun bids him goodbye.

 

On his lunch break, Joonmyun, armed with Mr. Kim’s sticky note, conducts further research, ignoring Yifan’s withering remark about _taking things too seriously_ as he preemptively wipes his fingertips, his silicone keyboard cover with wet tissues.

Kim Jongdae’s blog.

_Kitty Teacher_

He scrolls through the archives, 5 years worth of pictures and blog entries.

Kim Jongdae's wide handsome smile, crinkled eyes and white teeth, sun kissed skin, easy poise. There’s an entire gallery of him crouching down to plant seeds, feeding goats, pressing his palm to aquarium glass, running after children on the playground, cradling children in his lap to paint their hands for fingerpainting, dressing as a pirate with an eyeliner beard and an aluminum foil hook hand, dressing in a hanbok with his entire class.

Per the school’s safety regulation, the children’s faces are blocked with cutesy stickers, Kim Jongdae’s classes populated with bears, bunnies, puppies, and kittens.

Smiling at his screen, Joonmyun’s nearing Kim Jongdae’s first year, eyes scanning over Parent-Teacher conference jitters, Phonics frustrations, planting day mishaps.

There’s a picture of Kim Jongdae crosslegged on the playground, a tiny human—cutesy puppy sticker obscuring any particularly telling features—wrapping their arms around him from behind, laughing into Kim Jongdae’s neck. Kim Jongdae is laughing, too, mouth open, head tilted back, eyes crinklds. His hair is glowing in the light.

 _It’s worth it_ , Kim Jongdae had captioned the picture.

Joonmyun finds himself staring, mouse cursor suspended over the soft hair curling at his forehead.

“Oh _wow_ , he’s hot,” overly-comfortable mailroom intern Sehun comments. “Is that Baekhyun’s new teacher?”

Joonmyun smarts, jumping, but he nods in response, turning to meet Sehun’s eyes.

"A looker for sure," Sehun decides. A grimace like he’s deciding whether he should say what he’s about to say, but deciding to say it anyway because he’s overly-comfortable. “Definitely got the hots for teacher.”

 

Around a mouthful of pajeon that night, Baekhyun recounts his day. Very, very exciting and very, very eventful even though it was only for a few hours.

They read a story about a princess that—Daddy you won’t believe, but she just kissed a frog on the mouth just because she thought that would make him become a prince, she just kissed a frog on the mouth.

And they had animal crackers and milk for snack.

And they got to play on the playground for recess, and Baekhyun was the _fastest_ runner on the field, and he fell down he was running so fast, but he only cried a little bit because he’s very big.

And Jongdae Teacher said they’d be starting the really hard lessons soon, but that he thought they were all ready, they were all so smart.

And next week, Jongdae Teacher said they’d be using cereal to write Hangul. Baekhyun was gonna learn to write his _name_ , baby’s name, too.

He chatters on through his bath, pausing only occasionally to splash water at Chanyeol on the other side of the tub.

He’s so happy, so excited, he loves school so much.

 

In his favorite puppy footie pajamas, a matching set with Chanyeol’s own, freshly showered, soft black hair combed in a middle part, Baekhyun crawls out of bed to check his backpack. He has to give Joonmyun the very secret gift they made during class.

Hand behind his back to hide his gift, Baekhyun presents it with an outstretched palm, a shy smile. Chanyeol shifts on his side of the bed to look, too.

It’s a multicolored origami flower.

“Jongdae teacher had to help me with the—” Baekhyun pauses, “Petals. I have one for Mommy, too. We all made two. I tried to ask for one more, for Chanyeol, but he said not today. Maybe tomorrow.”

Baekhyun turns his cheek expectantly, cheek curling against Joonmyun’s lips as he drops a kiss to his skin.

 

Tuesday, Joonmyun wakes up with a familiar weight on his chest, twice over. One on his left, the other to his right. Before his alarm once more, he shifts gingerly in an effort not to jostle them.

“Chanyeol wanted to come, too,” Baekhyun murmurs, sleepy, slurred, when Joonmyun coaxes him awake. “You said I shouldn’t leave him alone.”

“Did you carry him?” Joonmyun manages, voice husky with interrupted sleep. “You’re not supposed to pick him up. You can drop him.”

“He crawled up by himself. I only helped.”

Joonmyun groans, and Chanyeol stirs. His long, long eyelashes cast dark shadows over his soft cheeks. His mother’s eyes.

“Chanyeol,” he whispers, and Chanyeol’s lips curl into a sleepy smile. “Baby, did you crawl up here by yourself.”

“Hyung said I could,” Chanyeol confirms, nuzzling against him, pulling Joonmyun hand towards his mouth to bite on his wrist. “Daddy’s bed is so comfortable.” A small, soft sound of distress. “Miss you when I sleep.”

Joonmyun can’t help but smile against Chanyeol’s warm temple.

He’s more helpful this morning, not wiggling away when Joonmyun changes his diaper, tugs on his clothes.

He’s cleaner during breakfast, too. Animated on the car ride to school. He insists he can walk all by himself this time, hand in Baekhyun’s on the way to school.

Leaning against the doorjamb outside of _Planet Mercury_ , Joonmyun watches as Baekhyun tugs off his sneakers, pulls on his indoor shoes.

Mr. Kim grins readily in greeting, crouching down briefly to ruffle Baekhyun’s hair. Already familiar, fond, and Baekhyun isn’t _choosing_ to listen because he _has_ to. No, he’s _wanting_ to listen because he _likes_ him.

Mr. Kim curls his lips, scrunches his eyes, waves his hand in greeting. Joonmyun returns it. But Chanyeol, not quite content to leave it at that, tugs Joonmyun further forward, demanding one last hug from Baekhyun, then peeking less-than-slyly into the classroom.

Some of the students, early—earlier—arrivals have already filtered in, sat down, started playing.

Joonmyun laughs in exasperation, and Mr. Kim, still crouching, catches Chanyeol’s gaze, asks him if he knows his hyung is one of the _best_ students in his class. He’s so smart and such a good listener, and Chanyeol can be one, too, when he goes to school, right? Can follow his hyung’s excellent example?

Chanyeol nods solemnly, tiny shoulders squared with purpose even long, long after when Joonmyun drops him off at his grandmother’s.

 

That night at dinner, Baekhyun once mores narrates his day.

They had tangerines for snack, bibimap for lunch. And Baekhyun was the only 5 year old brave enough to climb the monkey bars. And Daddy, Chanyeol, he already has _so_ many friends.

And and and during music class, Yixing Teacher—who is all the way from _China_ —he said Baekhyun is a natural, that really he’s born to own the stage.

Baekhyun’s face flushes at that recollection, and he uses his Transformers silverware to shovel another spoonful of rice into his mouth.

Wednesday, Baekhyun comes home with a peanut butter bird feeder they have to hang on the telephone wire outside Joonmyun’s apartment.

Thursday, Baekhyun plays soccer and scores three whole goals. He makes another origami flower for Chanyeol, then folds a paper airplane to hang above his bed, a makeshift, slightly crumpled mobile. He’s learned to make them on his own, so can Daddy take him to Daiso to buy special paper. He wants to make more for their room and also for Mommy’s desk at work.

Friday, Baekhyun tells him he _loves_ school, really, Jongdae Teacher is the absolute _best_. Today, they made pretend ice cream cones out of tissue paper and glitter and glue, and then they ate _real_ ice cream cones. And honestly, this is the _best_ school. He has the _best_ teacher. He’s so excited to go back next week and the week after and the week after that, he’s so excited for this year.

He prattles on animatedly from his booster seat, and Joonmyun grins at him in the rear view mirror.

That evening, Joonmyun stops by a kimbap shop to buy two rolls of tuna, walks hand in hand to the park.

He handfeeds his children, shoving chopsticksful of food into their bird mouths then lets them run around the jungle gym, watching them from the park bench.

As twilight is beginning to kiss the sky, they walk to the corner convenience store to pick up popsicles.

Chanyeol on his lap, Baekhyun at his side, they watch the sun set, with soft sounds of wonder, soft popsicle-sticky fingers and cheeks.

The next morning, it’s Joohyun’s, and Joonmyun tucks them into bed that night, readies their overnight bags, his kiss lingering on the soft warmth of their dark hair.

 

That Sunday, they go to the zoo, visors pulled over their heads, skin shiny and medicinal-smelling with sunblock, they greet all the animals, sit in on an animal play, sprawl out on the grass to stare up at the sky afterwards, finding the shapes in the clouds.

 

Baekhyun is doing very well at school, Mr. Kim notes in neat Hangul on his note home a month later. He has a lot of friends, has a great grasp of the classroom routine, and he seems genuinely happy and comfortable. He’s one of Mr. Kim’s brightest stars.

Baekhyun insists that Joonmyun take a picture of the note and send it to his Mommy and Grandma. He asks Joonmyun to hang it up on the fridge, too, reaches up on his tiptoes to touch it every morning, upsetting the little banana magnets that hold it in place.

Baekhyun and Chanyeol adjust remarkably to the new routine.

Joonmyun does, too.

And Joonmyun starts looking forward to dropping them off in the morning, singing along to the radio, playing “How many blue cars can you spot?”

He looks forward, also, to Mr. Kim’s easy smile, his soft, genuine greeting every morning, a pleasant pick-me-up, more potent, more exhilarating and warm than his caffeinne-laced morning coffee.

 

Baekhyun has his first field trip a month later, the aquarium, and all the parents are given an A4 sized shot. Mr. Kim and his 14 students, Baekhyun cocking his hip, grinning, holding his fingers in an exaggerated peace sign.

His other hand is in Jaehwan’s. His best friend, but Baekhyun has _tons_ , has he told Daddy, how he doesn’t have to worry about people playing with him or thinking he’s a baby.

Joonmyun touches it when he’s having a particularly difficult day, coming upon deadlines, contemplating bringing work home with him.

Sehun comments on it again, pronounces him _foxy_ this time, grinning when Joonmyun gets flustered.

Joonmyun rights the picture on his desk, Chanyeol’s, too, gets back to work.

 

That Thursday, Baekhyun climbs beside him on the couch, legs curling beneath him. He places his treasure box on his lap. A simple cardboard box, it’s decorated with superhero stickers, nail art decals, water colors. The contents are a hodgepodge mix of odd items, with varying degrees of sentimental value. A pressed penny from two years back when they’d gone to Disneyland, Chanyeol’s hospital bracelet, a popsicle stick, a really neat rock he’d found outside his grandma’s house, a receipt from the restaurant that Joohyun had taken to him last week, a seashell, one of his mom’s earrings.

He’s placing something else, a chip from a blue crayon.

“My crayon broke,” he explains softly, cradling it slowly in his tiny hand. “My first crayon from my first school.”

Joonmyun can see that he’s added other things, too. An extra copy of Mr. Kim’s first letter home, a clumsy origami heart, a piece of grass from their visit to the zoo, his ticket stub from the aquarium, a bead that Minho gave him.

Joonmyun leans over to drop a kiss to his temple, smiling as Baekhyun sighs in contentment.

 

Baekhyun’s first play date is a week later, casual, arranged apparently two days prior over snack. Mr.Kim had done a great job of retelling the story the day before, how Baekhyun’s deskmate Wonshik, shoving a fistful of goldfish crackers in his mouth had murmured about how goldfish crackers were his baby sister’s Jiwon’s favorite, too. And about how much he missed her, he wasn’t used to spending so much time away from her. And Baekhyun had divulged that he _also_ had a baby at home. His baby’s name was Chanyeol, and he had very chubby cheeks and he was very sweet and happy and he laughed at all kinds of jokes and he was being potty trained, so sometimes he peed when he wasn’t supposed to. But he was very cute, the best baby, would Wonshik like to meet him.

Of course, Wonshik, fascinated, had said yes.

 

Wonshik’s parents drop him off at 6 PM. They eat dinner soon after, Baekhyun setting the table, sitting next to Wonshik. They talk about their favorite superheros.

Chanyeol gets spaghetti sauce all over his face, all the way towards his eyebrows, and Wonshik—a big brother, too, an oppa, he’d proudly pronounced—helps him clean up, cooing all the while about how truly _precious_ and _adorable_ Chanyeol is, the most beautiful baby.

Chanyeol, mess as he is, preens, informs Wonshik that he loves his new hyung.

They play with blocks in the living room, watch Pororo, then dubbed Marvel films.

Wonshik’s eyelids are heavy with sleepiness by the time Wonshik’s mom picks him up.

 

And Joonmyun’s apartment, it becomes a very popular destination.

 

Jaehwan comes a week later, and they eat jajangmyeon, assemble large Lego cities then pretend to be monsters as they knock them over.

Minji afterwards, they eat fried chicken, play house, Minji the mommy, Baekhyun the daddy, Chanyeol their baby.

Hakyeon two week later, kimchi jiggae, they run a restaurant with Baekhyun’s food toys, calling Chanyeol and Joonmyun over to try their very delicious food.

Baekhyun’s classmates all coo over Chanyeol, fill Joonmyun’s home with laughter, have his children grinning in their sleep.

And the mothers smile indulgently at Joonmyun when they pick up their children afterwards. They call him _brave_.

 

Baekhyun invitations, they even extend to Mr. Kim one morning several weeks later, as Baekhyun unlaces his shoes and reminds his Daddy to pick up extra bread at the store.

“We’re making spaghetti,” he informs Mr. Kim. A pause, a furrowed brow. “My father makes the _best_ spaghetti, you know. You should come and have some. Tomorrow.”

Mr. Kim laughs, unnervingly deep. Uncomfortable, Joonmyun squeezes Chanyeol’s hand in his.

“Really, Jongdae Teacher,” Baekhyun insists, plopping down on the wooden floor to tug on his shoes.

“Well, I’ve never been one to turn down a good meal,” Mr. Kim responds with an easy smile, but his eyes are testing, eyebrows raised in question.

And Joonmyun bows his head quickly in response, lips trembling into a much-too-shy smile.

Mr. Kim writes his number on a chubby Pikachu sticky note.

That night, the next morning, Joonmyun goes to sleep, wakes up with a heavy sort of purpose, looming and exciting.

 

They stop at the grocery store on the way back from grandmother’s house, and Joonmyun lets them each pick a candy, a soda for the special occasion.

He starts the noodles and changes quickly in the bathroom, worrying over his hair, his face. He applies cologne.

He emerges minutes later to Baekhyun and Chanyeol sprawled across the couch, staring at the television screen.

Blinking up at him, Baekhyun asks why Joonmyun’s using his special smell, and Joonmyun rushes back into the bathroom, dabs some on Baekhyun’s wrists so that Baekhyun will stop asking.

Chanyeol, jealous, whining, he also gets a spritz, nuzzling into it immediately, murmuring about how it smells like _love_.

Baekhyun, surveying Joonmyun's outfit, tells him to change his tie. That blue one that’s Baekhyun’s favorite, the one he wore for Grandma’s birthday.

Satisfied, placated, Baekhyun glances at his own outfit with a long sigh.

And really, Baekhyun should _dress to impress_ , too. So should Chanyeol, right?

Jongdae Teacher is the _best_ teacher at the _best_ school, and they should really look their best for him.

Joonmyun relents with a strained smile.

 

That night, seated across from him, Mr. Kim makes light conversation about his job, about what got him into teaching, then about music, movies he’s been meaning to watch. Smiling ruefully, he mentions that he tries to keep up with Power Rangers, with Turning Mecard, with Pororo, with Tobot, and with Carbot for the sake of staying hip to the kids’ interests.

“I have very refined tastes,” he jokes around the mug of the coffee that Joonmyun has made him.

Mr. Kim doesn’t mention leaving until both Baekhyun and Chanyeol are nodding with sleepiness.

His hands are warm as they brush Joonmyun’s late, late, late in a lingering goodbye. His eyes are dark, and his smile wide.

And Joonmyun feels entirely put out, entirely affected. “Call me Jongdae,” he insists. “Even your sons—call me Jongdae.”

Joonmyun agrees with a shy grin.

“As long as you call me hyung. Not, not Mr. Kim either.”

 

Dinner together, it becomes an almost weekly affair ( _My Daddy makes the best pajeon, My Daddy makes the best fried chicken, My Daddy makes the best bibimbap, My Daddy makes the best kimchi jiggae, My Daddy makes the best dubukimchi, My Daddy makes the best tteokguk, My Daddy makes the best tteokbokki_ ). These dinner dates are supplemented by Baekhyun’s continued playdates. Baekhyun and Chanyeol and Joonmyun seldom eat an entire week alone.

And Joonmyun feels a familiar, long-dormant swelling of affection after every meeting, the heat and electricity of Jongdae’s lazy smiles, his lazy touches, his lazy gazes.

He’s so hard to read.

Joonmyun is plagued with doubts about what this all is, what it all means.

 

With the changing weather, as fall colors start to stain over the leaves, the horizon, Baekhyun upgrades, inviting Jongdae to come with them to the park. He reasons: Chanyeol likes him. Baekhyun likes him. Daddy also likes him.

Jongdae agrees readily.

And Jongdae—a monster that loves to eat little boys named Baekhyun and Chanyeol, they are the yummiest— chases them around the park until they’re shrieking and gasping and collapsing on the soft rubber floor. He collapses, too, beside Joonmyun, leaning heavily against his side as he pants about how the Monster needs a break, these yummy boys run much too fast.

He tugs on the collar of his shirt, revealing a network of tiny brown moles as he attempts to cool off, the column of his throat heaving with exertion.

Joonmyun is helplessly endeared, chest full with it.

 

The upgrades, Baekhyun-initiated, they continue.

 

Jongdae, one Sunday, goes with them to see the newest cartoon film, paying his own ticket and insisting on buying popcorn, an oversized fountain drink, nachos, he owes it to them after all the lovely meals he’s eaten at their house. Joonmyun sits next to Chanyeol, who sits next to Baekhyun, who sits next to Jongdae.

There’s a scary part, and Jongdae holds Baekhyun’s hand, discreet but tight. He rubs his thumb along Baekhyun’s knuckles, whispers something as Chanyeol whimpers and presses it into Joonmyun’s shoulder.

 

Two weeks later, Baekhyun invites him to a play they’ve been meaning to see, a children’s musical with dancing goats and a big bad wolf.

Jongdae again agrees.

 

Jongdae _keeps_ agreeing.

 

The feeling in Joonmyun’s chest it expands and expands and expands, with every curl of Jongdae’s kittenish lips, ever casual brush of fingers against his own, every heavy, dark-eyed glance that Jongdae levels—maybe levels—in his direction.

And several months in, after several nights of breathless realization and intrigue, Joonmyun can admit to himself that these feelings he has are less than platonic, more than friendly.

And maybe, maybe it’s inappropriate, Joonmyun wants to _ask_ , but he’s worried that Jongdae will say yes and that this will all stop. Joonmyun isn’t quite ready for that yet.

It’s working so, so well.

Jongdae’s his son’s teacher, and he loves Baekhyun. Cares for him. Understands him. Is helping grow and learn, and maybe it’s selfish to try to make it something more, imagine that it can be something more.

But there’s a muted exhilaration—probably misplaced exhilaration—in the prospect of those feelings be returned.

 

Joohyun comes by the Saturday after Joonmyun’s awful, awful realization, purse slung over her shoulder, smile reaching her eyes.

Civil, they say, they try to be, and Joohyun rights her shoulderbag on her pale, pale, bare shoulder, face straining in something like hesitance. Her face has always been too open, eyes too painfully honest and soft. _I don’t love you anymore. I’ve tried to, but I don’t. Let’s stop pretending this working. It died long, long ago._

“Baekhyun’s making lots of friends, having a lot of play dates,” Joohyun notes with an easy laugh, something guarded still in her eyes. “He says his teacher comes a lot, too. Says he’s got practically two dads now.”

Her eyes are heavy, words heavier with question, with something like intent, like soft understanding, soft permission.

Joonmyun doesn’t know how to respond, so he doesn’t. Just watches Joohyun watch him, her gaze warm. She doesn’t love him like that anymore, but she still loves him. In a different way than she’s supposed to, in a way that meant they shouldn’t be together anymore, but in a way that will never quite stop.

She’s been seeing someone, she told him a month back. A tacit sort of blessing.

Her fingers linger on his wrist, her smile in her eyes. And she’s so much happier without him. And he is, too.

“Take care of yourself, Joonmyun,” she breathes, rubbing her manicured thumb against his wrist. “Let someone else take care of you, too.”

And Baekhyun, tired of waiting in the hallway, whines at her to hurry up _please_.

He wants to see the superhero movie. Chanyeol, too.

 

The next week, they greet September, start learning about Chuseok, about thankfulness. A Planet Mercury tradition, Jongdae asks the kids to think about what they are grateful for, write the entries in little paper songpyeon. Jongdae will write it for them if they don’t know how to spell.

This month, Jongdae apparently reveals, it’s also my birthday so you can definitely write Jongdae Teacher.

And oh, Daddy, it’s Jongdae Teacher’s birthday, they _have_ to celebrate with him. They _have_ to.

Jongdae, of course, agrees.

Joonmyun, of course, flutters with nervous energy.

 

They pick up cake mix, Joonmyun attempts seaweed soup, Baekhyun and Chanyeol help where they can.

Jongdae, for his part, seems to appreciate their efforts, beaming at their pitchy rendition of “Happy Birthday,” grinning around his spoonfuls of soup and forkfuls of cake.

He helps Joonmyun clean up afterwards, lingering in the kitchen and making light conversation as Chanyeol and Baekhyun play in the living room.

“Baekhyun said he wanted you to perform the Montessori Sun Ceremony,” Joonmyun starts, bumping shoulders with Jongdae as he scrubs at a particularly hard stain with his sponge. “He said it was tradition, but I wasn’t sure if you wanted to...”

“Go around the sun 28 times,” Jongdae laughs, nudging him with his elbow. “No, no, no.” A pause, a softer smile. “This is very nice. Thank you.”

His arm wraps briefly around Joonmyun’s waist.

“Really, thank you. Bachelor’s life can be very lonely, and you have made it less so.”

Joonmyun feels his face heat. “The kids love you, you know. They helped decorate the cake, too. Chanyeol did, too. Sprinkles.”

“It was beautiful,” Jongdae compliments. “Good pick-me-up from the realization that I’m an old fart. It’s all downhill from here.”

Joonmyun nudges Jongdae back in an indignant protest. “You’re hardly decrepit, Jongdae. I’m older than you.”

“Yes, but hyung, you’re _handsome_ and distinguished.”

“You are, too.”

Jongdae scoffs.

“You’re easily the hottest Dad I’ve seen at my school. Don’t give me your pity compliments.”

And Joonmyun, face entirely too hot, whacks him on the side with a wet dish rag, laughing as Jongdae squawks.

“Why do you feel the need to compliment _me_? Are you courting me?” Joonmyun laughs, deflection, distance, even as he arches so easily, so readily into the warm touch against his waist. A slap at first, but it lingers. Jongdae’s fingers dig into his hipbone, dance up to his ribs, teasing, tickling before Jongdae lifts them away. Joonmyun quells a shudder.

“Yes.”

Joonmyun blinks, and when he turns Jongdae is wearing that same damn smile, calculating, charming, disarming. It’s the same smile he wears on his face when telling Baekhyun about the fairies that live in the forest, the little elves that look after Santa Grandpa while he makes their presents. Indulgent, not giving anything away, veritably the upperhand.

This isn't a joke, Joonmyun wants to say. But it is—it _was_ , and Joonmyun, he suddenly, painfully needs Jongdae to speak first, give in first.

 _Tell me how you really feel_.

"You do this with all the single parents," Joonmyun tries, biting his lower lip hard, unable to meet Jongdae’s eyes.

"No." And Jongdae isn't smiling anymore. It's even more unnerving. Joonmyun doesn't know what to make of his furrowed eyebrows, his contemplative tone. "No, never."

Joonmyun feels his own smile falter on his face.

_What **are** we?_

_What **is** this?_

And are these dates, these maybe intent-heavy encounters that have Joonmyun dressing to impress, styling his hair, wearing his nice cologne? And does Jongdae also maybe feel like he can’t breathe right, too?

Is this a game?

Things, words and doubts and questions, are bubbling forth.

“Did Baekhyun put you up to this?”

Jongdae blinks, startles.

“What—?”

“Baekhyun, my son, he loves you. He wants you in his life, permanently. Did he put you up to this?”

“No—"

“Well then, do you feel bad for me? Are you trying to fill the silence?” Too much distress is bleeding into his tone. He’s still giving much more—so much more—away.

“ _No_ , Joonmyun hyung.” Jongdae’s shoulders tense, but he lift his palms in some placating gesture of submission.

“Then why are you here?”

“Because I _want_ to be, hyung.”

“Why?” Joonmyun presses, and Jongdae flinches.

“Do you want me to leave?”

And no, he keeps—keeps shifting the responsibility of this onto Joonmyun, absolving himself of the risk.

“No.”

“Then why does it—?”

And Joonmyun feels like a child, being guided towards the right answer almost, towards Jongdae's whim.

But no, Jongdae should say something—it—first, give in first.

He squares his shoulders, meets Jongdae's eyes, voice firm. “Why, Jongdae?”

"If you're asking if I like you," Jongdae starts, and suddenly Joonmyun can't fucking breathe, body stiffening. "If you're asking if I— _want_ you, then the answer. The answer is _yes_. It’s been yes since I first—first saw you. I’ve been holding back because I’m not sure if you—if you _could_...”

There's blood rushing in Joonmyun’s ears.

“But if in not saying—not speaking...if you’re trying to say that you’re not interested, then—then...” Joonmyun squeezes on the nape of his neck, eyebrows pinching on his forehead. “Then I’m sorry for making things awkward, but Joonmyun hyung, I just need you to say something back.”

Joonmyun doesn’t respond. Not vocally, he reaches out instead, squeezes Jongdae’s fingers between his own, bites his lower lip.

Jongdae’s lips stretch into a breathless, shy, shy smile. That's hope, maybe, blooming in his eyes.

“Can I?” Jongdae starts, tilting his chin, and he sounds so painfully unsure, for the very first time in all the time that Joonmyun’s known him. Unsure and shy and extra vulnerable. "I want to—"

Pulse racing, Joonmyun nods.

Jongdae glides forward, then, quick, eager, but he lingers just just shy of Joonmyun’s mouth, breath tickling Joonmyun’s sensitive lips.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for so _long_ ,” he confesses against the seam of Joonmyun’s open mouth, words slightly dazed, eyes even moreso. Rendered like this because of Joonmyun, the promise of Joonmyun’s mouth.

It's Joonmyun that closes the distance with a low, wanting sound.

It's dirty, heated from the start, pent up tension on both ends—reciprocated, reciprocated. Jongdae moans loudly into his mouth, fingers tangling in his hair.

Arousal, long-dormant curls hot and potent in his lower body. Electric, heavy, just slightly overwhelming as Joonmyun plumbs the depths of Jongdae's warm, wet mouth. Falling into him, he moans back, presses him against the counter, melting into his pliant body. His hands trail up Jongdae's sides, tangling in his hair.

He loses himself briefly, but still too, too long.

He’s entirely too breathless when he pulls away. He has to—they _have_ to—separating himself the persuasive plushness and pliance of Jongdae’s wet, warm mouth. And Joonmyun’s hands are a firm—reluctant, reluctant—anchor on Jongdae’s hips. “My sons, they’re in the other room. And we can’t right now. We can’t...”

And it _kills_ him to think that this might be a momentary lapse of judgement, a brief indulgence,a fleeting opportunity

"But later," Jongdae finishes for him, kissing the corner of his mouth in a warm promise. Soft, lingering. "Later, right?"

Jongdae's eyes are soft, dark, imploring on his. Wanting, wanting.

"Yes."

 

Joohyun picks up her kids for the weekend, and Joonmyun and Jongdae have their first date.

They go to an Art Museum for a photography exhibit on savannah animals—Make my tastes more refined, Joonmyun hyung—flitting around the issue of touching, bumping forearms and elbows as they walk, both obviously wanting all the while.

Jongdae gasps dramatically at a picture of a giraffe’s tongue. “So purple,” he laughs sharply, slapping a hand over Joonmyun's thigh before lacing their fingers together. The initiated touch is none too subtle, and Joonmyun presses a smile into Jongdae's shoulder in response, squeezing tight at the hand in his. Their clasped hands swing between them as they meander through the rest of the exhibit.

They eat bingsu at a café afterwards, smiles soft and warm in the soft, warm ambient light, and Jongdae walks him home, lingers outside of his door.

He hesitates, lower lip caught between his teeth, catching Joonmyun’s eyes. They’re dark, liquid in the streetlight’s eery glow.

"I want to be a gentleman, really,” Jongdae breathes, shoving his hands in the pockets of his dark-washed jeans, shoulders rolling beneath his gray sweater. “And I know it’s probably too fast...But invite me inside, and I promise it'll be worth your while," he finishes, cheeks stained pink, eyes downcast, lips puckering on the last word. “Joonmyun hyung,” he says. Nervous, vulnerable once more.

And Joonmyun, wanting, wanting, wanting—too—drags him forward for a heavy kiss.

Abrupt, hard, they crash into each other. Forceful, enthusiastic, they stumble through the door, into Joonmyun's bedroom, attached at the hip, at the lip, eager mouths, roaming fingers, helplessly loud moans.

Jongdae flips their positions, pressing him bodily into the wall with a slow, fluid grind of his hips. He drags his teeth against Joonmyun’s lip, tugging just to provoke a heavier moan.

And Jongdae isn’t his first. But it’s been so _long_ since he has. Need, thankfully, overwhelms the nervousness threatening to lace every touch, inform every movement. He melts into the hot desire of this. A liquid fire settles deep and heavy in his gut.

Jongdae’s hands splay over the small of his back, steadying then drawing him closer, tilting him upwards to press against him more fully.

Slumping forward, panting Joonmyun licks over the moles dotting Jongdae’s throat. Because he can. He’s been wanting to _so_ long, and he finally can. Jongdae’s moan is dark and rich, heavy and wet against Joonmyun’s throat.

“Fuck, I _want_ you,” Jongdae breathes. “I used to wish you were gay.” Joonmyun’s not so unaffected that he misses the breathless chuckle, disbelieving and tight. “Or gay enough.”

“Enough,” Joonmyun manages, and Jongdae grinds forward, smoother, but harder. Joonmyun pulls back enough to watch him.

He’s rumpled, hair disheveled and in his eyes, lips utterly swollen, cheeks flushed, but his expression is still unnerving, entirely unsettling, hot and forbidden, unbearably so, and Joonmyun has to drag him forward to kiss it off his face.

Jongdae settles against him so easily, hands sliding down towards the hem of his shirt before tugging it off. He disengages with a slick, slick smack of his lips, his fingertips teasing over Joonmyun’s navel as he bites and licks and sucks his way across Joonmyun’s collarbone.

Joonmyun tugs at his hair in response, his other hand gliding down to cup the stirrings of Jongdae’s erection, denim-covered, hot and so responsive even through the layers of fabric.

Jongdae gasps, arches, bites down on Joonmyun’s shoulder.

“I touched myself to the this,” Jongdae slurs, stuttering out a sudden, heavy moan as Joonmyun drags the heel of his palm more forcefully. His next words are rasped against Joonmyun’s skin as his fingers dig hard into his waist. “I came all over myself like some kid. Wish you’d been there to see it, take care of it for me.”

“Me—me, too.”

“You are now.”

Joonmyun hums in agreement, dropping both hands now, working Jongdae’s jeans open to tug down his boxers, grip him fully.

Joonmyun teases at the head, drags along the underside, traces over his sac, and Jongdae fucking trembles, pulsing in his hold, moaning against his skin. He tugs off his own sweater, slides closer, gliding skin to skin as he pants heavy and hot. He noses his way across Joonmyun’s shoulder to his neck once more, biting there as he grinds insistently into Joonmyun’s fist, whispering all the while about how good it feels, how if Joonmyun keeps this up, he’ll come soon. Too, too soon.

Jongdae closes a hand around Joonmyun’s wrist after one, two, three tugs, his protest soft, weak, wet. Because _not, not yet_.

He presses their foreheads together, slots their thighs together, too, and pressed so impossibly close like this, Joonmyun inhales his every exhale, grinds mindlessly against him, chasing the friction that Jongdae so readily offers.

“Ever had your cock sucked by a man?” Jongdae asks. “Ever fucked a man?” His words are crude, but all the hotter, in their bluntness, a teasing undercurrent of hot want beneath every syllable.

“Yes.”

And Jongdae groans, eyelashes kissing against Joonmyun’s cheek as he turns, meets his gaze. His eyes are so, so dark, heavy with their want.

“Hmmm, were you any good?”

In college, breathless, slightly clumsy discoveries on twin mattresses, forbidden touches and heavy, heavy moans, but Jongdae, he doesn’t need to—

“The best.”

“Show me, then.”

And he’s tugging off Joonmyun’s jeans with a markedly desperate efficiency in the next breath, letting his pants fall to his feet, snapping his boxers to midthigh.

“Fuck, it’s gorgeous,” Jongdae rasps appreciatively, and Joonmyun laughs, breathy and strained.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, want it in my mouth.”

Jongdae slides down to his knees with a lilting hum then, soft hair whispering over Joonmyun’s hipbones as his kitten smile teases so painfully high on Joonmyun’s thigh, just shy of where Joonmyun most wants his mouth.

“What else have you done, hyung?”

Jongdae laves his cock with a soft, brief, brief lick. His eyelashes flutter as Joonmyun’s hip jump to chase the wet, fleeting friction.

Jongdae’s hands tighten around Joonmyun’s waist, holding him captive as he drops a fleeting kiss, excruciatingly slow, excruciatingly light.

Joonmyun swallows back a moan, quelling a heavy tremor.

“Hmmm, eaten out, sat on faces, fucked faces, been face fucked.”

Jongdae groans. “You’ve been so _busy_. All the amazing gay sex.”

Another kiss, more lingering. Blinking up through heavy eyelashes, Jongdae lets his lips catch on the crown of Joonmyun’s cock, his tongue tracing in small, damningly light circles. He shifts, pressing his forearm against Joonmyun’s navel, holding him steady, letting the fingers of his now-free hand trace up along the underside.

And Joonmyun can’t swallow back this moan, shuddering as Jongdae suckles him into his mouth, slow, smooth, succulent, so, so soft, savoring, humming all the while in something like appreciation and longing.

Back rigid, muscle tense, tense, tense, Joonmyun pants out Jongdae’s name.

Brazen, Jongdae smirks around the girth, a sort of teasing dark, dark promise in his eyes as he glides to take more more more inside.

Wet heat, glorious suction, distressingly sloppy sounds.

He strokes all the while, twisting, tight, then slides back with a slick pop, licks his lips.

Another glide, shorter, more lingering, eyes burning up at him all the while as Joonmyun’s jaw falls slack with the hot, hot pleasure.

“You should,” Jongdae proposes, swirling his tongue along the crown, grazing his fingers along his sac, smiling as Joonmyun jerks, “You should fuck my mouth.”

His eyes are dark, bemused, a challenge. Unsettling unnerving, unbearable, and Joonmyun tightens his fists into Jongdae’s hair, tugs him forward to do just that, sliding inside with a drawnout groan.

Jongdae, though slightly muffled by the cock sliding into his mouth, moans obscenely loud.

He lets his jaw fall slack, sucking only on Joonmyun’s ever retreat. His hands scramble upwards, brace themselves on Joonmyun’s thighs, biting into the skin as Joonmyun continues to thrust into his mouth.

There’s something goading still in his eyes, and Joonmyun scrapes his nails down Jongdae’s scalp as he rocks into him, a faster, sloppier rhythm.

The slick sounds of it are utterly filthy, punctuated with Jongdae’s moans and his own.

Jongdae touches himself all the while, eyebrows creasing, eyelashes fluttering with blatant, blatant pleasure as Joonmyun pushes harder, faster.

Joonmyun pants his name in between ragged breaths.

Closer, closer, closer with every sweet, sweet drag of Jongdae’s warm, wet, tight mouth against his aching skin.

But just just just when he’s about to—

Jongdae pulls away, panting, forehead crashing against his hip, stroking himself still, his cock peeking through his fist on every downstroke as his moans dampen Joonmyun’s skin.

“On me,” he manages, pulling back, blinking up at him, lips swollen and so impossibly red, eyelashes wet and glittering at the corners, sticking together. “On my chest.” He bares his throat, the long, tan lines of soft definition along his shoulders and sternum. The smooth skin is flushed and gorgeous, speckled all too soon, three strokes later as Joonmyun follows through on Jongdae’s breathy request.

Joonmyun collapses with the force of his orgasm, a ruined groan spilling from his mouth as he slides down, head thunking back against the wall, upsetting picture frames, the nightstand. His limbs thrum with pleasure in the afterglow, everything pleasant, warm.

Jongdae laughs, breathless, tight, nuzzling into his shoulder with a sigh of contentment. His cock drags hot, pulsing, hard against Joonmyun’s side as he shifts closer, and Jongdae muffles a gasp against his throat. A moan, a whimper, a rasped _hyung_ , when Joonmyun works a hand between them, grip firm, movements sharp, fast, efficient.

Jongdae’s lips part, drag against his adam’s apple as he comes soon after, trembling, moaning. He kisses his throat as he recovers, laughing still, affectionate.

“Worth it, right?” he presses to Joonmyun’s jawline, lips tickling as they drag in a lazy circuit from chin to earlobe.

And _yes, definitely_ , Joonmyun agrees, dragging a still-shaky palm down Jongdae’s side, tiptoeing his fingers along the smooth skin of his spine. He’s warm and soft and completely comfortable.

The kiss they share, sated, lazy, lingering, it’s filled to the brim with potential, with affection, with something beautiful.

**Author's Note:**

> double crosspost from critcap 2015 and my lj comm


End file.
